


Goddess Worship

by foundCarcosa



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-30
Updated: 2012-05-30
Packaged: 2017-11-06 08:01:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/416574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foundCarcosa/pseuds/foundCarcosa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Well, everyone knows Choir Boy wasn't ALWAYS Choir Boy...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Goddess Worship

After it’s all said and done (and said and done again), River thinks to herself, _There’s a lot of things people just don’t know about Sebastian Vael, isn’t there._

For example, the fact that he’s really self-conscious about his Starkhaven accent. Isabela tried to pronounce “murder” the way he does once, and Varric nearly choked and died on his mirth — then again, no one told him to take a drink whilst she was talking, he knows she always makes him spit-take when she’s well in her cups.  
Sebastian doesn’t talk much about murder anymore, and certainly not for lack of relevance. All River _does_ is murder people these days, it seems.  
He says ‘kill’ and ‘death’ a lot more, is all.

And then there’s that thing he does with his tongue that has nothing to do with talking. Or chanting. Or proselytising…

River had just finished taking her hair down when Bodahn alerted her to Sebastian’s presence in the foyer, and now he plunges his hands into it while he kisses her, and well, colour her overwhelmed, considering for months — over a year, even — he wouldn’t even step foot in her house. Now he’s in her bedroom, door closed, steadily walking her backwards towards the bed as he… well, in the words of Isabela’s tawdry novels, _plunders her mouth with his tongue_.

 _Terrible imagery,_ she thinks, and then forgets to think as he breaks the kiss and regards her, face flushed and lips parted.

If he looks that appealing _now_ , with his clothes still on…

River laughs nervously and licks her lips, knowing she’s going to start babbling and yet helpless to stop it. “Are… you sure you want to be here? I mean, it’s great and all, and uh… well, I mean, it’s not that I don’t want you here, but you’re… well, you’re _Choir Boy_.” She blushes as soon as the words are out, bracing herself.

But all he does is chuckle a little and trail the backs of his fingers down the side of her neck and between the lapels of her housecoat. “I wasn’t always, you know.”

“But—”

“River.” The way he says her name, slightly rebuking but still with that husky honeyed tone, makes her flush with heat from head to toe. She obligingly snaps her mouth shut and watches as he removes his armour, piece by piece.  
It would have taken her ages to do what he is doing, his deft rogue’s fingers unlatching and unclasping with practised ease. She wishes she wasn’t dressed so simply, so he could do the same to her…

“You like candles,” he comments, holding his arms out for her, and she realises she’s been frozen in place watching him, still trying to process how Serah Maker-this-and-Maker-that is standing in her bedroom in only his mail shirt and linens, smiling so warmly that if she could melt any more than she already was, she would have, right then and there.

She steps into his embrace, feeling his fingers pluck at the belt holding her housecoat closed and loosen it, shivering when the garment falls open and mail touches flesh. “Uh, yeah… yeah. Candles.”

“You glow in their light. Like a bronze statue.” Her breath hitches when his hand cups one half-exposed breast, thumb flicking quickly over its peak — just once, just enough to make her want to beg him to do it again. Maybe before she might have laughed at the cheesiness of his statement, but it’s hard to laugh when just _breathing_ is difficult.  
And there’s a sentimentality in his expression as he slips the robe off her shoulders and lets it fall to the floor, something close to reverence but with just enough of a hungry edge that she doesn’t question his intent.

“This isn’t the first time you’ve done this, is it?” she asks, not knowing if this makes her happy or sad.  
He smiles, lyrium-blue eyes gleaming in the flickering light, and guides her to the bed.

He doesn’t join her, even as she reclines on her elbows, watching him avidly. He crouches at the foot of the bed instead, drawing her smallclothes off her hips — which she lifts to assist, although her heart is thudding so hard in her chest that she thinks she’ll simply faint away — and brushing his lips over her calf as he lets the garment drop to the floor in front of his knees.

“What is this scent?” he asks, his voice muffled as he trails kisses up her thigh. Her heartbeat thrums in her temples now, a wave of heat blasting through any thought she might have been forming. “Like spices… exotic. I like it. All of you smells like this.”

“Something Antivan,” she murmurs faintly, a whimper escaping on the end of the phrase. His breath is warm on her thigh, but still she shivers.

“It excites me,” he whispers, and by then his breath is feathering over skin that has never been this close to anyone’s face, ever, and her breath stops dead in her throat, eyes wide as she watches him — at least until his lips brush her nether lips and she squeezes her eyes shut, expelling breath in a shocked sigh.  
Her elbows give up. She falls back onto the mattress, and Sebastian’s low chuckle hits her right in the core.

The strange embarrassment at having someone attend to her this way, with lips and tongue on such secret flesh, does not last. He is attentive and thorough, his hands holding her thighs steady as he traces the contours with the tip of his tongue, his nose rubbing tantalisingly against the nub of flesh that sparks with electricity every time he nears it. He slips that dexterous tongue into her time and time again, filling his mouth with the taste of her, shifting restlessly against the carpet as her plaintive sounds and tensing muscles evoke their own response in his unattended groin.

 _Maker forgive me, but I’ve missed this far too much to regret it,_ he thinks, his hand moving to slip two fingers deep into her, and her cry of pleasant surprise is like a choir of angels.

River claws at the bedclothes, her mind and body trying to process the twin sensations of his tongue and lips on that electric nub of flesh and his fingers curling inside her to stroke an equally electric spot she hadn’t realised was there but now couldn’t ignore, and without her permission her hips are arching up towards him with a demand he is quickly fulfilling, and soon enough he has to hold her still because she can’t stop writhing and what _is_ that spark that’s quickly turning into a raging flame and engulfing her and _Maker be **praised** —_

Her keening moan is only barely muffled by her clenched teeth, back arcing as her entire body clenches up so tightly she thinks she might just shatter, and yes, all it takes is one more flick of his tongue and crook of his fingers before she _does_ shatter, crying out sharply as every muscle lets go at once only to tense back up again and release again and riding this wave is surely the most dangerous thing she can do but he’s not letting her go, he’s just holding his tongue flat against her and it’s _her_ grinding against it, prolonging the agony, prolonging the ridiculously ecstatic agony until she just plain can’t move anymore.

She feels like she’s sobbing in relief as he finally backs off, shudders making her thighs and abdomen twitch, his light brush of lips over her thigh feeling like a firebrand.

“O Maker,” he quotes as he climbs onto the mattress to kiss her sweat-slick brow, her scent all over his glowing face, his voice even huskier if this is possible, “make me to rest in the warmest places…”

It’s not the last time he invokes the Maker’s name that night, but the next times he does, he is groaning it, and it isn’t long before he stops invoking the Maker altogether and starts invoking _her_ , and she likes the sound of that, she does.

After all is said and done (and said and done again, of course, again and again, because lost time is easily made up for once you get down to it), River thinks to herself, _There’s a lot of things people just don’t know about Sebastian Vael.  
And they won’t,_ she adds, smirking faintly as she strokes the lustrous auburn hair spilled over her pillow — he still sleeps, even as Orana whips up a fragrant breakfast — _they won’t, because Choir Boy is mine to know._

_Take that, Maker._

She snorts and claps her hand over her mouth to stifle the cackle, leaning over to kiss the back of his neck instead, still smelling her something-Antivan scent all over him and hoping she always will.


End file.
